The air has more spaces in it this morning. I peg a fatball on the washing line, for bluetits and coaltits. Spaces – to let in sap and movement and light that shivers slightly. It's misty but it's clear, clear -
it's full of -
slipping, movement, almost-footfalls, shape-changing, quivering – ah, the dreams of trees and grasses, what they will become. Light catches on bark and brush and birds – the garden is trying on its dreams. There's nothing slow about growth, it's just our vision that's gradual and limited. The plants and birds are awash with possibilities, the light draws them out, now this, now that, it's like a changing room at sales time, flurries of red crepe, gold silk, a swathe of linen, midnight blue and indigo, try it on, what might I wear tomorrow?
There's nothing slow about this spring.
March 1st - World Book Day - at 6 pm, I'll be reading at Blackwells, on the Bridges, Edinburgh - along with Tessa Ransford and A C Clark.
There should be nothing slow about this reading either, as at one point the three of us will be reading as the characters of an 18th century French congregation. Whose priest, Father Meslier, has some rather unusual ideas....